


Work It Out

by winterlive



Series: Work It Out Trilogy [3]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-03
Updated: 2009-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterlive/pseuds/winterlive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rules, expectations, mixed messages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work It Out

**Author's Note:**

> D/s themes. As ever, thanks are due to jamesinboots, traveller & seperis for audiencing, and thenyxie for beta duty on a dime.

They don't fuck in America. That seems to be the rule. Nobody checked with Chris about this rule, or he would have told them it was stupid.

He can clearly recall the last few hours before leaving Europe, and the burn of his shirt against a dozen fresh teeth-and-fingerprint bruises over the Atlantic. The L.A. premiere sped by in a sea of flashbulbs, and New York after that. He wasn't even surprised when he didn't see Zach in the few days they spent at home before Tokyo. After all, they both had lives to attend to, agents and friends to see after a month abroad. And then the Pacific was under them, and he was watching Zach jerk him off in a tiny airplane bathroom mirror. So it never really sunk in, until recently.

They've been home for two weeks now. He's seen Zach a dozen times for lunch and dinner, at the gym and around town, and not once has Zach so much as looked at him sideways. Chris asked and everything - okay, maybe a little awkwardly, but he made his intentions clear about the sex, and the having much more of it. Zach just laughed softly, slung his arm around Chris's shoulders and said _Let's go out. Come on, just you and me._

"You can't predict it," he scowls at the ceiling, flung sideways on John's couch. "What you'll get addicted to. I thought I was in fuckin' Hollywood, man; people are supposed to get addicted to blow, or... tantric scientology or something."

The TV emits a nervous bleep as a question mark appears over the head of a security guard. John stares at it intently, unmoving, until the mark disappears and the security guard walks on. With a sigh of relief, John pauses and tosses his controller on the table. "Dude. Your love life."

"I _know_ ," Chris groans.

He hadn't meant to come over here and complain. He'd called to see if John wanted to go out somewhere and kill some time, and then John said he hadn't eaten and did Chris want to come over because Kerri's presiding over the barbecue. And he likes burgers.

"You wouldn't consider maybe -"

John cuts him off. "There is no way in heaven _or_ hell that I am running messages between you and Pointy-Ears."

"But I wasn't -"

"Don't even try it."

Chris huffs a sigh and pushes his face into the arm of the sofa. Stupid... everything.

"Come and get it!" Kerri hollers from the patio, and Chris leaps up and lets food and good company erase his brain for a while.

The next morning he calls Karl and listens to stories about his ridiculously cute kids for an hour. Karl will never run short of those, and Chris doesn't mind – the Urban family came to visit the set a few times and they were great. Plus, he misses Karl more than he thought he would. Knowing they'll be seeing each other again in a while to film the sequel only makes it tougher, honestly; he wants to haul Karl down to the bar they all used to go to and pour Jaeger down his throat until he gets drunk enough that he starts hiccuping. Karl is the only person Chris has ever met that actually does that.

Of course, when he hangs up, there's only one thought in his mind. He thought about bringing up Zach about eighteen times during the call, but whenever he let the silence stretch out, Karl had just waited patiently until Chris had filled it with something else.

He rubs his hands over his face, picks up the Farragut North script and goes over it again, though he's memorized every line in it.

His days, now that he's home, are settling into a weird but regular pattern. In the morning he drives down to his coffee shop and checks the percentage of paparazzi out front. If they're thin, he sits out on the patio with an iced cap and the paper. If thick, he takes a medium to go. Towards eleven, he takes the reporters out for a jog, and the afternoons he'll spend working - going over scripts or his lines or whatever takes his fancy. Sometimes he'll even listen to his agent. Then he spends the hour between six and seven deciding whether or not to call Zach. The evening then plays itself according to his decision - ignoring a persistent erection all night, or not.

By the time he finally calls Zoë, he's getting desperate.

"Hey," he says awkwardly when she answers the phone. It's about six thirty. "Zo. It's Chris."

"Oh, it is," she says, and he can hear the raised eyebrow across town.

He winces, but he's out of options. "I need you," he confides. "I have a problem."

"You have many problems," she tells him. "One of them is that you've been moping around like you're in junior high for the last month, and another is that _Anton_ could tell you why you're moping even though he's in the damn Terminator, for which it is premiere week, and therefore has better things to worry about than you."

Chris gapes at his phone like a fish.

"Come out with me tonight," Zoë says. "I'm in L.A. Put a foot out of Silverlake for once."

"Okay, okay," Chris says, because he couldn't win an argument with Zoë if he tried. "Where are we going?"

She gives him the name of some club in Santa Monica and he jots it down and goes to get ready. When it's time to go, he drives down Sunset with the top down, because he fuckin' feels like it. Because it's nice to just get something he wants for a change.

At the club, Zoë's got a bunch of friends with her and Chris makes only a mild stir, which is nice. After about two seconds, it hurts his ego a little, and then it's okay again. He hugs her and is surprised all over again at how she almost disappears into his arms, folding herself around him. He'd forgotten, in the time it's been since he's seen her, and he feels a pang of homesickness for the crazy lights and pings, for the uniforms and smoky trailers and even J.J.'s mountain of empty Diet Coke cans. "It's great to see you," he smiles.

Zoë swats his arm, but she smiles too. "Come on, let's get a seat. I wanna talk to you."

He finds an out-of-the-way booth to sit in, and she slips in beside him and cuddles up close. She's right up in his space, which is weird as hell given that she usually only did that on the red carpet - Zoë's birdlike, too active to sit still for long enough to cuddle. Still, he's not complaining; he puts an arm around her and watches her order drinks for both of them without a word. The fact that she knows his drink makes a surge of love bubble up in his chest; he squeezes her shoulder.

Then she puts one delicate hand high – very high! – on his thigh and squeezes back, and Chris about jumps out of his skin.

"Listen," she says, her voice pitched low as she leans against him, her eyes on the table top. "Usually I would never do this, but I'm tired of the little gray cloud following you around. I like you, baby. So I want you to understand that I know what I'm talking about."

She squeezes his thigh harder, her fingers digging into the muscle. It starts to burn, and he's about to protest when she releases him. The rush of blood, adrenaline and endorphins has his brain singing all of a sudden. He feels kind of woozy.

"He makes you feel like that," Zoë tells him gently.

Chris stares at the table, reeling and blank. The waiter brings their drinks and Zoë pays, which is nice because if she didn't Chris would probably just give the waiter money until he said stop.

He can't _think._

Then they're alone again, and Zoë rubs his thigh with a gentler touch. "You okay, baby?"

"Uh," he says, which he feels is pretty articulate, given.

He meets her eyes, and she makes a face like she's just come across the cutest little puppy in the whole world. "God," she sighs, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I'm surprised he lets you go outside. And I never would have guessed. I don't know how he did it."

Chris finally puts something coherent together. "How he did what?"

"Don't worry about that," she tells him, waving it away with a hand. "Talking to myself. Just take my word that I know what I'm talking about, okay?"

"Sure," Chris nods somberly. He's not sure _he_ knows what she's talking about, but she sure was dead on about that... thing. That's exactly how Zach makes him feel, and he's shocked as hell that somebody else can come anywhere near it.

She puts her head on his shoulder. "I'm not saying he knows what he's doing. Honestly, I think he's being a typical control freak that doesn't know what he's got when he's got it. So that's why I'm gonna tell you what you should do, because I love you both no matter how dumb you get, and I want you to be happy."

Chris blinks. "Thanks," he says sincerely.

Zoë chuckles, and pats him. "You're gonna have to go get him."

"He's not into me, Zo," Chris says, shaking his head. "I tried asking him and he dodged me. That's a pretty clear hint, don't you think?"

"You know Zach," she says. "If he meant no, don't you think he'd have _said_ no?"

That... actually sounds right. Chris frowns.

"He's just confused," Zoë continues. "And freaked out about getting too close. You have to convince him that that shit doesn't matter."

Chris knocks back his drink, feeling it's called for. "Just how do you figure I do that? He's not just going to sit down and straight out talk about what he's thinking, Zo. He's _Zach._ "

Zoë shrugs. "I dunno. You're the one that got him in the first place. How'd you do it?"

Chris knocks the ice around in his glass for a whole twenty seconds. He didn't, he thinks. Zach did all the talking, Zach was the one that pushed it further and told him to stay. Zach's the one that started everything, and... wait. Wait.

"Actually, he was drunk," Chris says. "It was the first time he ever got really tanked with me, you know what I mean?'

Zoë sits up and meets his eyes. "Actually, I don't. Zach's never been drunk around me."

Well, Chris thinks. That's... okay. That's something. He scratches the back of his ear, mulling it over. "He'll never just go drinking with me. He'd see it coming a mile away. Plus it's kind of gross."

Zoë nods and sips at her drink. He looks at her and she gives him a helpless shrug.

He spends the rest of his night with Zoë and her friends, and it's great. It gets him out of his head, gives him some space to work out his problem. When he ends up at home alone in bed, once again thinking about the thing Zach did with his tongue in Tokyo, he figures it's about time this thing got sorted out one way or the other, because at this rate he'll go blind in a week.

The next day dawns with the promise of sweltering weather. The mercury climbs as Chris hits up his coffee shop, and by the time noon rolls around he's too sweaty and miserable to jog. He settles for an icy shower, which is soothing in many ways. He kills time until four, and then it's up to Gelson's for supplies. He takes the curves hard on the way back down Hyperion, so it makes perfect sense that his heart's beating a bit fast when he dials Zach's number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, man. You busy?"

There's a half second pause. "No, not especially."

"Good. I'll be coming up your street in a few minutes. You got a blender, right?"

"...That's the thing in the kitchen with sharp parts, right?"

Chris is too nervous to laugh. "You don't have plans later, right? You're free for supper?"

"Okay," Zach says, and there's a rustling in the background. He sounds surer, like he's putting himself together, getting his surprise under control. "What do you wanna order?"

"It's already taken care of," Chris assures him. "You just corral Cujo."

"Noah is an angel," Zach insists primly. "Noah! Here, boy!"

The mutt barks in Chris's ear immediately, which makes him smile. "See you in a few," he says, and thumbs the off button. There are bees in his stomach, fuck the butterflies. He can't remember the last time he deliberately set out to seduce somebody, and never once has he had to seduce a guy. His palms are sweating.

He parks on Zach's street and comes in through the front door, which is open for him. Zach's place is zen and relaxing; he's one of the only people Chris knows that makes serious money and doesn't have a designer. Everything here is blond wood and brushed nickel, and there are splashes of color here and there in the wash of white light. Zach's house is like a treasure trove, his personality tucked into shelves and hidden in the walls.

"Hello?" Chris calls.

From the office, Noah barks his head off. The cat comes running up to twine around his ankles, apparently glorying in the ability to do so without doggish interference. Chris puts his bags on the kitchen counter and picks the cat up. "Hey," he says fondly, rubbing its head. He can never remember its name. "How ya doin, kitty?"

"Being a pain in my ass, is how he's doing," Zach answers, coming around the corner. "They've been fighting all day. It's my fault, though; I left them alone so long." He comes up to Chris's side and rubs the cat under the chin, which makes it close its eyes and purr blissfully.

Chris suddenly doesn't like the cat so much. He opens his arms and lets it thump down onto the black stone floor. It purrs on as it pads away – even the fucking cat is calm and cool in here. Chris has never resented a cat before, but it seems like a good time.

Zach has wandered over to the grocery bags and is peering inside. "Gelson's? I'd make a joke about putting out, but it seems inappropriate." His tone is light, but there's a heady, promising undercurrent there. As always.

"It's our supper," Chris informs him, cheeks burning as he starts pulling stuff out of the bags. He braves his way forward, because that's all there is to do. "I'm making us the best quesadillas we ever ate. I even got some cilantro just for you, but I'm telling you, man, it tastes like soap."

Zach says nothing. He stays quiet for a long few moments, until Chris finally has to stop in the middle of the un-bagging to look at him. "You said you were free..."

"I am," Zach says, sounding a million miles away. "Sorry, I just... guess I wasn't expecting this, exactly. But mi kitchen es su kitchen." He puts up his hands, and Chris knows he's supposed to read that as flippant and casual.

But it isn't.

Chris turns back to the counter and bundles the plastic bags up to stuff in the recycle. "I was just thinking about Madrid a while ago," he says, trying to sound casual. "They had that spice you liked, but I couldn't remember the name, so I didn't get any."

"Cumin." Zach fills in, and sounds as though the mention of Madrid isn't any more important than the mention of Antarctica. He stretches up to the shelf over the stove. "I have some, just a sec."

Chris can't keep his eyes from flicking over the sliver of bared belly, and turns away almost as soon as he catches it. He busies himself finding Zach's cheese grater, and thanks God that he doesn't have to ask where anything else is.

Zach comes up behind him and sets the cumin at his elbow, looking at Chris with an interested kind of slant to his eyes. "Here."

"Thanks," Chris says, his smile a little too bright. "Go have a seat. I got this."

Zach hesitates again, that split second when Chris is sure something is going on that he doesn't know about. But then it passes, and Zach goes to sit at the table and put his feet up on one of the chairs. The cat, opportunist that it is, jumps up on Zach's lap and butts its head against his chest. Zach smiles immediately, and pets it all the way down to the tail. "Hey, you little shit. You're lucky you're cute."

"I know," Chris smiles. "I'd never get any work otherwise."

Zach laughs, and that seems like a win right there.

Chris keeps up a steady patter while he loads up tortillas with cheese and chicken and assorted bell peppers. They trade stories and it's like it always is: fun, easy, relaxing. If Zach hesitates sometimes before answers, well, Chris can't do anything about what Zach won't say. He's just about ready to get the show on the road, so he hauls out Zach's blender. Ice, frozen orange juice, check.

"Great idea," Zach says, the tantalizing hint of a moan in his voice. "It's hotter than a catwalk. On _fire_."

"Just wait," Chris promises. He grabs two tall glasses from the cupboard, and then pulls two bottles from their paper. Grenadine is for the bottom of the glasses, and the tequila he uncaps and pours into the blender. It turns the light gold.

Zach's silence fills the air, heavy and meaningful on Chris's ears. When he finally breaks it, his voice is slow and measured. "What's that?"

"In a minute it's gonna be tequila sunrises," Chris says, feeling his heart start kicking a bit harder in his chest. "With lots and lots of ice. Cold drinks plus hot day equals good."

"Mm."

Chris bites his lip, slides the quesadillas into the oven and then flicks the blender's switch. It grinds into the silence, a welcome relief.

He's timed it well; everything's ready about the right time. Zach sets the table while Chris carries food in from the kitchen. He's got sour cream handy in case it's too spicy, tortilla chips to break the grease, and Zach's drawers yielded straws, so everything should be just about perfect. Zach should be feeling comfortable and relaxed, maybe enough to open up a little on uncomfortable subjects. Once the food's worked its magic, Chris will close in for the kill.

He carries the plates into the living room and lays them down, Zach's first. "Careful," he says. "It's hot."

The look Zach gives him, up through his lashes, could burn the porcelain. It's full of uncontrolled hunger, lust and heat. Chris almost stumbles, his eyes wide, as that heat slams into his belly and twists him around. He can feel his body start to stir, leaping to answer Zach's demand like it's heard the fucking starter pistol.

Then, just like that, the look is gone. Zach is just plain old Zach again, and he portions out some food with his fork. "Looks good," he says softly.

Chris thumps gracelessly into his chair. He feels like a fourth grader on a basketball court with Shaq.

He watches Zach spear a piece and eat, watches the approval register on his eyebrows and nothing else.

"You're quiet today," Chris tries, picking up his own fork. It's a shot in the dark, but his plan's all turned around.

"Am I?" Zach asks, looking up at him in innocence. "Sorry. Can't think why I would be. Except you're trying to get me drunk." He picks up his sunrise and sips at it without changing his expression one iota.

Chris coughs. "Well," he stalls, flushing guiltily even though he was expecting that Zach would figure him out. He licks his lips to buy time, remember his line. "I _like_ tequila sunrises," he says, and fixes his eyes on his plate. "But we're both grownups. I think we know our limits, right?"

There's a moment where Zach's eyes go wide and a smile starts to form itself from the shocked O of his mouth. His fork clatters to the plate. "Are you kidding me? Are you actually..." Zach stands up and paces away a few steps, turns his back on Chris and stops with one hand on his hip and the other at the back of his neck. He shakes his head, disbelieving. After a second, he schools his voice into something more even and measured. "Do you really expect me to believe that you don't know what this is? You surprise me by making me dinner, in my own kitchen, then offer me booze and then imply that if I were to accidentally fuck you, well, I should have had better _control_ over myself?"

Again with the implication that he's stupid or something. Zoe did the same thing. "I know what I'm asking for," he says, setting his jaw. "Hard not to, after Tokyo-"

Zach gives this pained, desperate little laugh. "Tokyo? Tokyo. You..." He shrugs, his hands wide. "I don't even know what to say to that, Christopher, I really just..." And then he gives up, turns around and heads into the next room.

Well, Chris thinks wryly. That was unexpected.

As he gets up to go chase after Zach, he starts to feel anger start to subsume whatever lust he had going on. He rounds the corner with a full head of steam. "Y'know what? I'm getting a little sick and tired of whatever it is you're doing, here, _Zachary_. I thought we had something good, and maybe you didn't. I get that. But if you didn't want to see me anymore you could have just said, hey, man, let's cool it. You could have said _something_. You left me hanging out there like a fuckin' prom date! I thought we were friends!"

Without a word, Zach grabs him by the wrist, hauls him in and kisses him hard enough to sting. He's pushing Chris back against the wall and his hand is pressing up hard against his, oh, God, yes.

Chris wants it so bad, he wants to fall into it again and let it all just happen, but he can't. He knows better this time. From deep down inside, he finds the strength to push Zach away. "Stop," he says, and thanks God his voice is stronger than his arms. "Just stop for one second and _talk_ to me."

Zach's still, his hands in tight fists at his sides. "I'm sorry," he says, the strain edging into his voice. "That doesn't usually happen to me." He pinches the bridge of his nose, where his glasses usually sit.

"What?" Chris demands, angry because he's lost. "What doesn't happen? You don't dodge questions you don't want to answer?"

Zach's mouth tightens. "I mean I shouldn't have lost control like that. I apologize." It sounds forced and awful, and Zach still won't look at him.

Chris wants to say something comforting, but he doesn't have the first clue what it could be. You don't need to have control? Of course he does, it's practically tattooed on him. Chris takes a step toward him, and then another. He puts a hand on one curved shoulder, and Zach doesn't shrug him off, which is progress. "Zach," Chris says, making his voice soft. "Just sit down with me. Explain it to me. You say I don't know what's going on, so _tell_ me. And then maybe we can… do something about it."

Zach laughs, small and short and quiet. "How can I explain it to you? I hardly know what you are myself, let alone... explicating it." He waves a hand in a vague gesture, perhaps meant to encapsulate the whole weird and inexplicable business that is Chris.

"Come sit down," Chris coaxes, backing toward the big plush couch. "We'll figure it out. I'm not that complicated," he promises, daring a smile.

"Oh, you think?" Zach says, following Chris's hand down to the cushions. "Don't sell yourself short, Pine. It's like… it's like you've never studied aviation or how to pilot, but one day you walk into the cockpit of a Boeing and make a perfect three point landing. And… here I am cruising along, like I've done since the day I found out how, and out of nowhere, you're so good you're making me fuck up my flight path. I can't do my job because you don't know any of the rules, and I wish I could teach you but it'd ruin the way you fly, and..." He breaks off and touches gentle fingers to Chris's cheek. His eyes have a kind of wistful pain in them that hurts to see. "The way you fly is beautiful."

Chris touches his hand. When he doesn't pull away, Chris presses those fingers to his face, and then the palm. It's warm and nice, and while he didn't understand all of what Zach just said, he got enough to know that Zach's full of it.

"That's why I pulled away from you," Zach continues. "That's why I think this can't work for us, that I'll only hurt you. But I… I was scared, I guess. I should have handled it better, you're absolutely right."

"I forgive you," Chris says, interrupting. "But what you said before about how I don't know the rules? No offense, Zach, but that's total bullshit."

Zach shakes his head. "I already fucked it up once, it only proves-"

"I'll _learn_ ," Chris says, raising his voice as his temper flares again. "Nobody starts a relationship knowing everything they're supposed to know about the other person. You need time to figure out how you fit. I got a whole three nights out of you, man; three nights is not enough. Not by a long shot."

This time, the kiss is mutual and passionate. Chris grips and pulls, trying to get inside Zach enough that he can't be so easily brushed off and forgotten. He feels his beard brush Zach's clean skin and thinks, _good._

"This is a bad idea," Zach breathes into his mouth, against his jaw. His hands hold Chris close at the shoulder and the small of his back. "I'll hurt you."

"It's my call," Chris fires back, and presses Zach's hips down into the couch with his own. It makes fire crackle up his spine, makes his whole body shake. "I say I'll risk it. God, Zach."

His eyes have gone dark and dangerous. Chris's grip on his shirt slips a little, and Zach murmurs into his neck. "You think you can give me what I want?"

Chris slides a hand into his hair. "Bet your ass."

"You'd have to give up anyone else," Zach says, pushing aside the collar of Chris's shirt so he can put bite marks under it. "You'll find I'm a jealous lover."

Chris shivers. "Okay. Done."

Zach shifts, and the room goes off kilter for a moment. He runs his hands over Chris's thighs and settles at his hips, thumbs pressing deeply. "I'm high maintenance," Zach breathes into the heated space between them. "I want your time. When you're with me, I want your undivided attention."

"Believe me," Chris shivers, pushing against Zach's mouth. "You got it."

"And if I ask for something you don't want to give?" Things still a little. Zach pulls his head back and looks up, seriousness making his face go a little sad.

Chris sits back on Zach's thighs and frowns a little. "Then I'll say no," he answers truthfully. "But I don't think that'll happen a lot. Haven't had any problems so far, right?"

Zach nods. He reaches up to stroke a firm thumb against Chris's lips, but his tone is no less serious. "I won't force you into anything you'd hate. No matter what. It's important to me that you know that."

"I know you wouldn't," Chris says, taking Zach's hand from his face. He's a little confused, but it's easy enough to make this assurance if Zach needs it. "I trust you, man. You wouldn't hurt me."

"And it's fine with you that I rarely bottom? Some men might expect to switch from time to time, but that wouldn't be happening with us."

Chris feels his cheeks go red at the very thought. Opening Zach up like that would be so intimate - he never even thought about it. He certainly wasn't expecting it. Maybe he'd want to one day, but now? He wouldn't even know what to say afterward. "That's all right for now," Chris answers. "For a while, like… a good long while. If that changes I guess I'll let you know?" He shrugs one shoulder and looks at Zach hopefully.

Zach, for once, smiles back. "Good enough," he says. Then he slaps Chris's hip, hard. "Come on. I wanna finish dinner."

Chris rubs at it, utterly buffaloed. "What? But we-"

"Shut up," Zach says, shoving Chris to the side. "You made it, I want it, so stop arguing with me and move."

With an exertion of will, Chris allows himself to be drawn toward the kitchen. He glares at Zach the whole way. When Zach pushes him into a chair he keeps on sending death with his eyes, but he falters when Zach picks up Chris's fork and literally puts it into his hand. He's inches away, heat of his body bleeding through the air and into Chris's shoulders and back.

"Go on," Zach tells him, his fingers pushing underneath Chris's collar. "Try some. It's good." The touch is sure and firm.

Chris shifts in his seat, trying to ease the pressure along the seam of his jeans. Mechanically, he portions out his food and puts it down. The drink is nice, if only because it helps to cool him down for a few seconds. Plus, Chris is pretty sure this will all go a lot easier on him if he's got a little booze to help get rid of the jitters.

Zach watches for a second, which is weirdly thrilling, and then takes his seat. For a few gentle, quiet minutes, the tension has time to dissipate and Chris is almost calm. He does note that Zach takes precious few sips from his drink - not enough to affect him, but enough to cool his lips and wet his mouth with the taste of oranges. It isn't a far stretch to imagine how the sunrise would taste if Chris were to let it melt on Zach's skin first.

Zach doesn't look up from his plate. "Stop that," he murmurs, his voice tempered and resonant. The corners of his mouth tilt up.

Chris's face turns scarlet.

When they're finished, Zach stands and pulls Chris to his feet.

"The dishes," Chris mumbles, not meaning it. He's reaching for Zach already.

"Later," Zach says, and takes one step backward. Then it's another, and another, until Chris is following him through the kitchen to the back of the house, and the door he's never been through, one room added on like an afterthought that sticks out into the back yard away from everything else. Zach opens the door and for a moment Chris sees only light and color.

Zach pulls him inside.

The bed is enormous, surely a California king. Zach drags a heavy black curtain across a window and then Chris can see a table, a chair, a closet. But nothing draws his eye like the brilliantly-colored duvet, so at odds with the rest of the house's calm, clean lines. There is a window that needs no blinds just over the bed. It is covered in brilliant green leaves, and the white walls pick up that color. Being in this room, with those curtains closed, is like being in a sun-damp grotto.

All Chris can think is that this might be the one place in the house that isn't intended to be restful. It makes him laugh, a bemused little sound in the intimate light.

"Come in," Zach says, and the light turns his eyes black. Chris is mesmerized, and follows along when Zach pulls him by the shirt. A gentle push is all it takes to send him sprawling down onto the bed, and suddenly Zach seems very tall and imposing, eyes hidden by his hair as he crawls up after Chris, bringing shadows with him. His knees on either side of Chris's hips, he flicks buttons open and smooths fabric off and away. Absently, he murmurs to himself. "God, you have no idea how perfect you are."

He plucks at one of Chris's nipples, and the jolt through Chris's body steals his breath. "There's lots of... guys in LA."

"Not that," Zach says, leaning down to kiss the abused skin. His t-shirt brushes Chris's belly, his knees grip Chris's hips tightly. "You are beautiful. But the way you give, the way you _want_ it, Chris."

He rolls his hips, lets there be pressure and friction, yes; it's so fucking good that Chris's eyes lose focus. "Oh... Jesus. Jesus Christ, when, how... a dry fuck isn't supposed to be that good, Zach, _ah,_ God."

A low chuckle rolls across the skin on his ribs. "Put your hands over your head," Zach murmurs, kissing and biting his way south.

Chris does that immediately, locking his hands around his opposite wrists. Anything, if it'll make this keep going, anything he wants so long as it's more.

"Ask me," Zach says, his face against Chris's belly now. The bed gives under his knees as he moves down, under his elbows as he braces himself to pull at the jeans button.

Chris knows exactly what to say. "Suck my dick, Zach. Please." Gotta use his name, he likes that, he'll do it if his name's in it. Chris counts dots on the ceiling and prays he doesn't just go off as soon as he's touched.

Zach brushes his nose beside Chris's belly button, his fingers spreading warm across the skin. "Again," he says, the edge of a smile in it. "I don't think you mean it."

Levering up on his elbows, Chris stares at Zach, wide-eyed. "But I just-"

"I said, ask me _again_." Zach sends a searing look at him, and faster than Chris can track, he grabs one wrist and yanks. Chris collapses back against the pillows, surprised, and Zach wastes no time in flipping him onto his face, pinning him to the bed again. "And I seem to recall telling you to put your hands up here."

"Sorry," Chris breathes, cheek pressed hard against the pillow. He's completely sincere, he just forgot. "I'm sorry, I won't move, I swear."

Zach grinds hard against the curves of Chris's ass, his fingers biting into the wrists he holds. "If I don't get what I want, you can't have what you want. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal," Chris winces, gritting his teeth against the pleasure that rolls through him when Zach pushes him against the mattress. "I'll be good, man, I promise."

"Mm." The hum is speculative, tentative, and hot against his ear. Zach lifts up off him and slaps his thigh. "Ditch your clothes. I want you on your back, middle of the bed, hands up. Got that?"

Chris is already moving. He flings his shirt at the wall before remembering about the folding thing, and then he has to scramble up to go get it and fold it which is hard because while he remembers with total clarity how to fold a shirt, for some reason his hands aren't really cooperating with the orders from his brain. Zach has disappeared into the ensuite, and Chris can hear him moving around in there; his heart is pounding in his ears because he absolutely has to be finished before Zach comes back or... or Zach will be disappointed.

Jeans next, and he figures there's no time to empty the pockets, so he shoves his underwear in one of them and just folds the jeans in quarters. Done. He's on the bed with his hands over his head and his fingers locked. He won't let go, he's determined. Forget about it. He's got this.

Zach comes in from the bathroom with a stone bowl. He sits down and puts it on the nightstand, picks a white cloth from it and wrings it out. "Perfectly still," he cautions. "Unless I tell you to move."

Chris hesitates. "Can... can I talk?"

"Of course," Zach says. "I enjoy your voice."

When he puts the cloth on Chris's skin, it's almost too hot. He pulls it softly down and across, dips it into the water again when it gets cool. Chris feels his skin opening up under the warmth and attention; it makes him feel languid and relaxed. "This supposed to loosen me up?" he asks, and the words slur together in his mouth.

"Yes and no," Zach tells him, pulling the cloth along his arm. "It's for that, yes. But I'm also doing it because I like to put my hands on you. Maybe do things nobody else has done, or will do. I want you to learn to feel good when my hands are on you."

Chris smiles, his eyes closed. "I can think of another way to do that."

"I want all the ways," Zach counters, smoothing warmth along Chris's side, his hip. "One kind of good isn't enough for me."

As the cloth sweeps along, Chris warms to the idea. It sure is new, and it's helping him control himself a little better. Where the cloth has been absent for a while, his skin is starting to goosebump, which is another kind of pleasure Zach's given him. Maybe it's weird to have somebody give you a spa treatment in bed, but who gives a shit? He tries to feel it all, the way he's supposed to.

Then Zach's cloth slides up the inside of his thigh, and Chris feels a high note come slipping from his throat. "Open your legs," Zach instructs softly, and Chris spreads wide. He's instantly throbbing hard, right on the edge like he never left it.

"Zach," he breathes, clutching his own wrists hard. "God, I want it, please."

A soft laugh is his only answer, and then the cloth comes up the other thigh and it's so burning hot, trickling water down the little creases.

Chris grits his teeth hard, shuts his eyes tight. It's close, but not close enough, and he can't help rocking his hips even though he's pushing into nothing. "Nnh, God, you make me so fuckin' crazy."

"It's my favorite thing about you," Zach tells him, and lets the dripping corner of the cloth tickle over the length of his erection. Droplets fall randomly on his hips and his belly, and Chris never knows which way to turn, not with his eyes closed.

It's some kind of torture, surely. "Did I do something wrong?" he pants, trying desperately to hold onto his wrists.

"Oh no," Zach assures him, and then there's a warm kiss dropped inside his bicep. "But you truly are gorgeous when you squirm."

"Bastard," Chris snarls through his teeth.

Zach clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. "Afraid I can't allow that kind of language. Turn over, hands and knees. You can use your hands now."

Chris scrambles to obey. This position can only mean good things.

And then Zach presses the hot cloth against his balls, and the water goes running down his belly and into the covers. Zach runs a fingertip over the tender opening above, slipping the cloth up and around, working the heat in him. It's almost soothing, and then the cloth is gone and there's a sudden flood of lube, which drips down too. Thick drops track down his eager dick, into his belly button, and all Chris wants to do is reach back and use his hands to rub it around where it should be but he knows, he _knows_ if he tried it, he'd pay.

"Your hands," he mumbles into his pillow. "Zach, touch me, please. I'm sorry I called you that."

"You will be," Zach promises, and lets one gentle finger go trailing down delicate, shadowy skin.

With the wetness on his belly, it feels like he's already come. When his dick twitches, it slaps against wet skin. Zach gives his hole a gentle massage, long and kind strokes, and when he finally presses inside it makes Chris groan so loud he's sure Zach's neighbors must hear. Fuck if he cares.

"You can't come like this yet," Zach tells him softly, working his fingers inside Chris's body. "But one day, I'll push inside you, just like this, and you'll shoot all over the bed without anybody touching your dick at all."

That slap again, wet skin on skin. Chris fists his hands in the pillows and presses them to his face so he won't shout. The pillows do mangle his words, when he's together enough to make them, but he hopes the intent is clear: "Fuck me, fuck me, Zach, God, fuck me."

"Patience, my darling. Good things come to those who wait."

Just now, that seems like a particularly brutal form of torment. "Can't wait," he mumbles against the pillows, rocking his hips as best he can. He turns his face then, so he can be clear, and opens his eyes to see if he can catch the dark ones above. "God, I need it, Zach. Fuck me, please, I can't take it."

A kiss to the curve of his hip, and another, another, a bite. "You can take more than you think," Zach informs him, fingers sliding firm and steady.

A bit of something - water, lube, pre-come - drops from the tip of Chris's dick to the covers and focuses all his attention on that one point of skin for a blinding second. He groans, pushes back on Zach's hand and feels a tear squeeze from his right eye. Quickly, he pushes his face into the pillow so Zach won't think he's been hurt.

"Soon," Zach assures him, rubbing a hand over his back. "You're doing so well, just hold on a little longer."

Chris digs his nails into the pillows and feels his toes curl as he tries to breathe.

Gently, Zach draws his fingers out, and the wave of relief in Chris's chest is palpable. Now, he thinks, trying to arch his back just a little more. Now, now, now.

There's a shift on the bed, and Zach is gone. Chris looks up to see him standing by the bed, fabric sliding down his thighs. Zach takes his cock in his hand and strokes once, teasingly soft, and then beckons Chris with a shining fingertip and a smile that's just this side of son-of-a-bitch.

Chris doesn't care. He knows what he wants and he goes for it, sliding over to the side of the bed in a heartbeat. He slings an arm around Zach's hips and pulls him close, opens his mouth over the head of that dick and sucks the fresh taste from the tip. It doesn't take him more than a second. He shifts his hips on the bed and tries to ignore the empty, needing throb.

Zach has thrown his head back, breathless. "Suck it," he orders, his hips rolling gently enough to belie the harshness of his voice. "Let it slide on your tongue."

Chris tries as hard as he can to do exactly that, to push down as far as he can go. His face is burning, but he can't feel it anymore. Zach is bigger than he looked, harder than Chris was expecting, and he knows he isn't good at this but fuck it, he tries. He presses his tongue against the cock in his mouth and slides, like he was told, and when he has to pull back and cough, Zach leans down to kiss his neck and face. "It's okay," he whispers, his hands anchoring Chris to the world. "It's okay, you did so good."

He's so gone that he can't really hear. His chest hurts with everything he's feeling, gratitude and want and something deeper, kind of painful. Chris can't think enough to name it, and doesn't try. He grips at Zach's shoulders and pulls at him. He tries to make words enough to beg, to ask for what he wants like Zach said he could, but they come out mangled and half of what they should be, and Chris can't make them fit together.

"Look at you," Zach is whispering, pushing Chris onto his back, sliding between Chris's thighs. "Fucking look at you. Your whole body is... God, Chris." He grabs Chris's wrist, brings it down to his knee. "Hold it," he demands, kissing Chris's mouth. Chris does as he's told, both hands holding his own knees apart, and tries to ask with his eyes.

Zach looks him over, spread and ready, and runs soft fingertips over the back of one thigh. "So many things I want," he says, almost to himself.

Chris would take any of them, he really would, but right now he can't wait any more. He's past waiting. He lets go of one knee, rubs a hand down the mess of water and lube pooled on his stomach and takes Zach's dick in his hand. It makes Zach gasp, flinch - Chris knows it's because he's broken some kind of rule. But then he sways into Chris's hand, his body coming closer. Chris jerks his fist, tight and fast, and watches the flush climbing up over Zach's belly, his chest, his arms. He looks up at Zach's face to ask, to beg, whatever it takes. "Now," is what comes out of his mouth, a broken and desperate moan.

Zach bites his lip, sets his jaw. He pushes Chris's hand away, shoves his chest so he hits the mattress hard. "Stay down," he rasps, and Chris doesn't dream of disobeying. Zach wrenches open the nightstand drawer and almost demolishes the plastic casing around his condom. Chris watches the tight set of his back and his hips, the furious movements, and thinks for the millionth time since he met Zach that he's like electricity or an atom bomb: powerful and destructive and tightly controlled.

That he, Chris, has pushed this man to his breaking point is a fact that settles warmly in his stomach. He feels like the best lover Zach's ever had, and maybe that's not true, but it feels good to think.

When he comes back to the bed, Zach wastes not a single movement. He pushes Chris onto his back, sets his knee on the bed for balance and lines up his hips, all in the space of a breath. He doesn't say a word, doesn't soothe or ease or reassure. Chris can't tear his eyes away from the sight of Zach starting to sink inside him, a terrible, inevitable pressure. He squirms, suddenly panicked, but Zach has him pinned down just so and he doesn't have the strength or the will to get away.

Then, at the moment when one more ounce of pressure will split him open, Zach takes Chris by the chin and forces him to look up. Suddenly his field of vision is just that face: serious, intense, eyes like razors and a mouth as precise and beautiful. "Say my name," he instructs.

Chris sees a man who worked side by side with him. He sees someone worthy of respect because he knows how to give it, someone who loves those around him without having to say the words. He sees a person who will protect him without being asked, who would never hurt him unless he needed it, who can be trusted with all the secrets he has left.

"Za-aaach," Chris groans, voice breaking as the tension breaks and Zach presses deep. Chris reaches down to haul his lover closer, and his hands slide on sweat-slick skin. "Do it," he's murmuring, and can't remember when he started. "Do it, do it, do it, come on..."

Zach obliges. His hips snap hard, shoving Chris up the bed and slapping against his ass. "So fucking good," he pants, lips a breath away from Chris's own. "So good for me."

"For you," Chris agrees, blind and gasping, clutching at whatever he can reach. Stars spark across his skin and his eyes; he knows he'll come the second Zach touches his dick and he knows Zach will pick just the right moment. It's all going to happen, and suddenly he knows what to say. He fights to open his eyes, to kiss Zach's mouth. "You," he whispers. "You're just... what I wanted."

Zach slams against him and holds himself pressed against Chris's hips. Every shiver and tremble makes its way through both of them, feeding off one another. Zach kisses him, hard and then soft, and Chris feels his hand working its way between their bodies. "Not until I say," he cautions, warm and kind.

Chris nods his head fervently. He'll find a way, he'll hold on.

Zach grips his dick in a tight fist and thrusts his hips again, and Chris starts to worry that sex too amazing will make him crazy. He grips with everything he's got trying to hold on; he sinks his teeth against Zach's shoulder, locks a knee around his thigh, digs his fingers in. The bed shakes under them, metal shuddering loud. Chris counts the seconds; he's so close and he has to shove it back, squeeze tight and not sink into it the way he's desperate to do. His body feels too full, any second he'll burst with it, and sounds escape him that he blushes to hear.

He does not ask. He'll hold on for as long as Zach wants. He must.

And then, Zach starts to pant into his ear. Suddenly, Chris can hear need in that voice, something like the insane urge clawing inside him. Zach moans, a faint little sound, and Chris can't bear it.

"Please," he whispers, his discipline starting to break apart. He pushes his face against skin and feels the heat there, the almost imperceptible tremble. "I can't. Zach."

The pain is sharp at the back of his skull as Zach twists his fingers in Chris's hair and jerks him back. He kisses Chris deeply, hand moving hard and fast on Chris's dick, and that'll just have to be permission. The last shreds of strength he has are gone and something primal and wild slips its leash inside him. He screams his throat raw as it comes tearing out of him, hips jerking on their own, and it's deep and hollowing and not even really him anymore, the white noise filling his head and erasing him.

When feeling returns to his fingers, his toes, Zach moves in him again. It touches off a bone-deep shudder; something like what Chris always thought orgasms were before whatever it was he just did. "Jesus Christ," he groans, and his voice is deep as a coal mine.

Zach kisses his shoulder and twists his hips a second time, making a second shudder. "Are you okay?" he asks, as though Chris is capable of conversation.

"Unh."

The answering laugh is like sun-warmed honey, slow and rich. "Don't move," he instructs, dropping heavy kisses against Chris's skin. "Breathe."

Chris does that, and his brain is just starting to click again when Zach draws back and slams into him, deep and hard and fast. Chris short-circuits all over again. He throbs heavy, deep inside, his whole body reacting at once. "Fucking Zach I fuck God fuck," he says. Of course, what comes out sounds nothing like that, but he doubts anyone cares.

"Perfect," Zach tells him, smearing the word across skin.

Chris notes that he's moving again, his hips jerking short and fast. He makes an effort to kiss back, to catch Zach's mouth with his so he can feel the moment that'll make everything complete. "Come on," he whispers, stroking Zach's shoulders with nerveless hands. Pleasure is slipping and shivering in him now, but it's just echoes; he presses his thigh against Zach's waist and tries to hold him. "I want you to," he says, breath shuddering.

Zach presses their mouths together, but he's too far gone to kiss. Chris does it for both of them, licking at his lips, gentle and sweet. The breath against him is shaking, needy, and finally Zach's hands tighten around him. "Chris," he gasps, and presses against him for long, breathless seconds.

If Chris never heard anybody say his name again except just like that, he could die happy.

When Zach collapses against him, Chris hugs him tight. He smells like sweat and sex and something under that, clean, like rain. Chris buries his nose in Zach's hair and catches the sweet edge of cologne. He knows better than to say anything, though he's thinking more or less clearly now and there are things he'd like to say. Right now, the only thing that's right is to hold on, so that's what Chris does.

After a while, once things have settled down and reassembled a little, they peel apart. Chris still can't really move much more than it takes to flop over onto his side; Zach proves himself the superior athlete by actually making it to the bathroom and back before falling down onto the mattress. Chris puts his hand on the smooth curve of Zach's back and smiles.

They fall asleep, just like that.

It's late when Chris wakes, and the house has become cool. He takes a minute to remember where he is, a second to freak out, and ten more minutes to replay his last half hour of consciousness. Zach is a boneless lump on the bed next to him, even after that, so Chris crawls out of bed and into the shower. His bones crack as he goes; sex always does that to him. The pops and snaps feel great, and when he steps under the hissing spray, that's good too.

It appears that Zach's a sound sleeper. When Chris is finished toweling off and tugs his jeans back on, Zach's still dead to the world. Noah is whining in the office, so Chris shuts the bedroom door tight and braves the wrath of dog. It takes some serious love before he'll go outside, but things settle down after that.

Zach pads out of the bedroom while Chris is watching the late news. "You could have borrowed pajamas," he says, dropping a kiss on Chris's head. His voice is full of sand and rocks, his fingers soft when they touch skin.

Chris shrugs. "I would have wanted to ask," he says, a little smile playing around his lips.

"I suppose you would have," Zach smiles back, and invades Chris's space thoroughly for a few warm minutes. When they're pleasantly tangled up on the couch, Zach touches his mouth. "Do you want to go home or stay here? I think we can do either."

It's not much of a question. "I'll stay here tonight," he answers, hands possessive on Zach's body because he can get away with it for now. "Too late to stumble home."

"Good," Zach tells him, and winds a hand into Chris's hair before giving him a deep and thorough kiss.

When they break apart, Chris is laughing. "You can't want to do it again. I thought Pasdar was the Italian stallion."

"Shows what you know," Zach ripostes, his grin flashing in the TV's glow. "I like this," he says earnestly. "Y'know? Just being us, but with something extra. Promise you'll always give me this, no matter how often I fuck your brains out."

"I can promise that without reservation or proviso."

Zach rolls his eyes. _"Proviso."_

"Top _that_ ," Chris smiles.


End file.
